Normal Human Emotion
by WolfMagic48
Summary: A year after the fall, John Watson is still trying to get over Sherlock's death. If only he knew Sherlock was still alive... Johnlock piece, rated M mostly because I'd rather be safe then sorry with the last chapter.
1. You don't cleanout alivingperson's flat

"Come in John," said Ms. Hudson, beckoning the doctor up the stairs.

John stood at the bottom of the staircase. "Just a minute, Ms. Hudson."

"Of course dear, take your time."

"Thank you," John said. Ms. Hudson went into the flat and closed the door, and John Watson stood with his back to the wall just like he had after he and Sherlock had chased that cab.

"You invaded Afghanistan," He laughed, the same way he had when he heard Sherlock tell him the joke that night, and then he ran his hand along the wall searching for Sherlock, but the man wasn't there.

"No…" John whispered, "I don't cry."

His eyes stung, but it must have been the dust or maybe the smell of cigarettes that still hung in the air from Sherlock. He was a solider. Soldiers don't cry, right?

"God no. Sherlock is still out there somewhere. He can't be dead. Just, don't let him be dead," and John found himself crumpled on the floor, staring a long crack trailing the ceiling. He stared up the stairs and stood himself back up, feeling drunk and like he was stuck in some kind of nightmare. He wasn't coming here to clean out the flat. That's not something you do for someone you still think is alive. _But he is dead John, you saw him jump yourself. _Flames were licking he's eyes like they had when bombs blew up and the inescapable heat surrounded him. He wouldn't cool them with that salty water though. It would hurt far too much, much more then fire ever would. Concentrating on his breathing instead of the lack of another breathing person next to him, he ran up the stairs, imagining he was Lestrade and Anderson on a drugs bust. Yes, he was here on a drugs bust, not to clean out his best mate's flat, his best mate who jumped off a building and ended his life, taking the adventure of John's life with him. He opened the dark forest green door, so much like the tree that hung over Sherlock's grave on rainy days, and faced the mess Sherlock had left him and Ms. Hudson to clean up.

"John, would you mind taking the kitchen? I don't want to stumble across anything…"

"Any human body parts? Yeah, I'll do the kitchen," John barely looked at the front room and turned into the kitchen, staring at the bottles of unlabeled fluids and scientific equipment. Of course, Sherlock kept and never labeled anything because he didn't need to, but did it ever cross his mind that maybe John needed the labels? No, of course it wouldn't. Sherlock couldn't waste his time on boring things like labeling and organizing chemicals when he knew which was which. Everything was labeled in his mind.

"I've got boxes and a can, if those will help," said Ms. Hudson.

"Yes, thank you very much," and John considered where to start. He thought he might start by throwing away all the trash, but he quickly realized there was no trash. He then thought he should get all the most important things out of the way first, but it all seemed equally unimportant now that Sherlock wasn't going to use any of it anymore. By lunch, John had the tea out of the cabinet, sitting in a box next to him. The rest was no use. He might as well give it all to Molly, just like it was. He didn't want to clean out any bottle or beaker, because it might be useful in some way. And he couldn't find it in himself to admit defeat. He didn't give up, and he didn't lose battles, especially with himself. He wouldn't let himself admit Sherlock was dead.

"I'll go and get some lunch from up in my flat. You don't mind ham do... oh dear John," said Ms. Hudson looking at the nothing that John had accomplished.

"I'll take it, Ms. Hudson."

"I'm sorry dear, you'll what?"

"I'll take the flat. I'm moving back into 221B."

"Are you sure you can pay the rent?"

"What'll it be? I'm not Sherlock, so you don't have to give me the discount you gave-"

"I'll make it 130 pounds."

"Ms. Hudson, are you sure?"

"Yes John. Just, don't expect me to be your housekeeper."

John smiled, "I wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll still get your sandwich though, you'll be needing that. Oh, and I'll get that face off the wall for you, and maybe-"

"It's all fine, Ms. Hudson. Just, don't worry about it. This flat is just fine the way it is."

"You won't be using the bedroom upstairs anymore, then?"

"No, Ms. Hudson. I moved out of there a while ago."

"Alright then. I'll let you be, Doctor Watson."

"Thank you, Ms. Hudson. Thank you so much."


	2. Pointless date

John spent to rest of that day cleaning out Sherlock's bedroom, washing his sheets and moving his clothes and junk drawer contents into boxes to make space for his own. Now by the evening, the room looked more like John's room had upstairs, just bigger, with Sherlock's furniture in it. The room looked a lot bigger in general, without all of Sherlock's clutter in it. Sherlock's mind may have been perfectly organized, but Sherlock's stuff sure wasn't. John honestly didn't want to know what kind of experiments Sherlock did in his bedroom. He'd move them all to various places around the kitchen for now, but he'd have to face the kitchen eventually, if he ever wanted to store groceries in there. The fridge was still filled with eyes and livers and who knows what else. John's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Sheryl, his last date who had been trying to get together with him since Sherlock's death. He tried to nicely say he wasn't interested in a second date, but honestly, she's a pretty girl and John needed a distraction. Dinner tonight with anyone even remotely bearable sounded wonderful. He texted back a quick yes, and got himself prepared to go out. The more he thought about the date, the more he dreaded it. He was still stuck on Sherlock's death, and no matter how had any girl tried, he knew all he would be able to think about was the fact that solving a murder with Sherlock would be a whole lot easier then trying to talk to a girl again. But out the door he went, locking 221B, hailing a taxi and going to some new Mediterranean place. When he got out of the car, the girl recognized him pretty much immediately, and seemed overjoyed to see him.

"John, it's so good to see you! I can't believe how busy you've been, with your friends death and all, I'm sure it must be hard, but just know I'm here for you." Sheryl's dark black eyes stared back at John with a false intensity. This girl was pure fake, from her words to the tacky lipstick on her mouth.

"That's very nice of you."

"You're welcomed. Have you ever been to this place before? I-" and already John was tuning out, wondering what annoying comment Sherlock would decide to make about this girl.

"-and that's how I decided to try this place," John stared out the window as it started to drizzle, rain tapping the glass and leaving it's mark for a minute or two before another would come and replace it.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Are you listening?

"What? Oh, yeah."

The rest of the meal was pretty much the girl babbling on and on. That's when John got a text. From Sherlock.


	3. Sherlock's text

_ Hello John. I can't exactly tell you where I am right now or exactly who I am. I can't tell you anything. At least, I shouldn't. I just wanted to tell you that you could do better then that girl. You could do better then just about any girl you've ever gone for, but you don't. You may say I'm not the one to talk, but I still thought you should know that this girl is just a mundane as the rest of your stupid and boring girlfriends. You think I'm kidding you but I'm not. So call off this date and go to the library and read a couple books. I know, boring, but go._


	4. Belief

John stared at the text, looking up at the girl every once in a while, just mulling over the text, deciding what to do. Sherlock wasn't dead. No, he was. John had seen it happen, right? As he and the girl split the cost and paid, John looked at Sheryl. Sherlock was right. She pretended to care, but she didn't. But was it Sherlock? It couldn't have been. Somehow, someone had gotten a hold of Sherlock's phone and was pretending they were him. Maybe some kid just messing around, or maybe someone who wanted him dead. Suddenly, John didn't care anymore. He had to find out. John said goodbye to Sheryl and got a taxi to 221B, grabbed his gun and a flashlight, locked 221B in case someone was just trying to get him out of the house, and took another cab to the library. Pulling up, John got out and stared into the black, only a small streetlight flickered a little bit away. It was enough light though for John to see all he needed to see. It was Sherlock.


	5. Alive

"Sherlock?"

"John!"

"What…" John pulled out his gun for safe measure.

"You don't need the gun. It's really me. I'm still alive. Right here. Really."

"Sherlock…" John ran for the man, with disbelief and relief.

"I think I'm ready to come back to-" and John punched Sherlock square in the face.

"And after being gone for a year, that's the greeting my friend gives me?"

"What were you expecting? I've gone though hell without you! Do you know what it has been like? It's been like coming home from the war all over again! I can't think about anything but the lack of everything, the lack of you! And you just, after a year, send me a text? Would you rather I choked you, because it nearly happened!"

"John, I had to go. I was getting too much attention from the press, and there was truly no good way to live and still beat Moriarty."

"But you are alive!"

"It was simple, really. I jumped into a truck, and Molly fixed up a dead body to look like me, so I threw it out the truck onto the sidewalk, and there you have it. Fake dead me has a funeral, I get the press and Moriarty off my back, and you seeing it all made it seem way more real so there was no doubt about my death."

"… and you put me though hell! I can't live without you and your constant need for a puzzle, and your answers for everything, your high cheekbones and…"

"John? Did you just compliment my facial structure?"

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Sorry, I'm tired. I just need to go home and sleep… with you in the flat."

"Come on John," and Sherlock and him walked up to the streetlight, the neon of London lighting up their faces, taking a cab to 221B.


	6. Closer then they have been in months

"Well John, where exactly am I to sleep, and where is all my stuff!"

"Were you expecting me to go a whole year and never clean out a single room of this flat?"

"Yes."

"Well, you were wrong."

"No, I just was-"

"Wrong."

"No John, I'm not wrong!"

"You are too!"

"This isn't worth my time. Where am I to sleep?"

"How about you take a shower first?"

"How about you tell me where I'm going to sleep first?"

"I'll figure it out while you go take a shower. Now go! You smell like you haven't had one in months!"

"More like a year."

"Shut it and go take a shower."

"Fine," and Sherlock stormed off like a child, happier then he had ever felt to have an argument with John. He got into the bathroom and stared at the mirror, shocked by the state he was in, but he'd never admit to being shocked by anything, much less his own appearance. _Wow, my cheekbones are pretty high. I forgot about that. _Sherlock glanced over himself and could read just about everything about himself, and, frustrated by how easy he was to read, stepped into the shower. The water felt stupid good. Sherlock immediately eased up, felt his shoulders relax and the feeling spread from there. He stared at the bar of soap, which he was pretty sure was a year old, and scrubbed himself raw trying to get all the grime off his skin. Some off it fell in big chunks, some off it seemed as though the only way it was going to come off was if the skin went with it. Scratches and gashes and bruises he didn't know he had showed up all over his body. He glanced at every one and knew exactly how each one came to be. He peeled off scabs and new fresh crimson ran down the ivory of his skin. Just as the water had gotten so cold it numbed him to the point of pain, John walked in.

"John!"

"Sorry, you've been in there for awhile. I wanted to tell you I'm sleeping on the couch. I don't want to wake Ms. Hudson."

"And yet you're okay with walking in on me?"

"It's not like I can see you."

"Right."

"Anyway, see you in the morning, Sherlock."

"Wait."

"What?"

"You deserve the bed John."

"No, you should have it."

"What if we just both had a bed?"

"That would require two beds."

"Or…"

"Sherlock, no."

"Just thought I'd offer."

"Offer to make the two of us look like a gay couple?"

"Is there something wrong with gay couples?"

"No, but…"

"Just sleep with me in the god dam bed John."

"Okay, but we aren't letting this leave the flat."

"Good. Now leave. The water hurts."

"What?"

"Just go."

"Alright," and John clicked the door closed behind him. Sherlock turned of the water and wrapped himself in an old ragged towel, drying himself off, surprised by the tinge of redness that was in some places on his skin. He had signs of hardship on his skin. Every mystery and dangerous situation Sherlock had been in, and he had never seen himself cut up, or bruised, or anything. He was untouchable. Until now. Until he played dead for a whole year. Sherlock left the bathroom and drifted down the hall to his bedroom. John was in bed, completely asleep. Sherlock sighed and turned on the light, scrambled his closet for pajamas, only to realize John had filled the thing with his own clothes and boxes. Sherlock opened and box and let out a breath of relief as his own underwear stared back at him. At least John hadn't gotten rid of all his clothes. Sherlock put on his underwear, and then began taking out boxes looking for his pajamas. John blinked awake and looked over at the noise to see Sherlock sitting in the middle of a bunch of opened boxes, in nothing but a tight pair of black underwear.

"Sherlock…"

"John!"

"Can't find pajamas?"

"Yeah…"

"Just go to sleep."

"In nothing but my underwear?"

"Yes."

"Right," Sherlock turned off the light and trying to slip into bed, his knee bumped into John's calf.

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"No."

"All right John," and about ten minutes later John had fallen asleep. Sherlock, no matter how comfortable he was at the moment, couldn't seem too. There just wasn't enough space in the bed for him to lie comfortably without touching John. So he moved over. And over. And before Sherlock realized it, he had wrapped himself around John. Sherlock felt so comfortable. So he decided John could yell at him in the morning if he wanted, and he was going to go to sleep.


	7. Welcome back to London

_ Beep, beep, beep, beep. _John's alarm went off for work this morning and he was ready to jump out of bed, only he found himself curled up into Sherlock, staring and his bare chest.

"Sherlock!"

"John?"

"What the hell?"

"What… oh…"

"I'm straight."

"Why is that important right now?"

"Sherlock, when I fell asleep, I was facing the other way, and we were on different sides on the bed, and then I wake up flipped over and snuggling into you? Honestly Sherlock, how clueless are you?"

"I'm not clueless."

"Then why don't you understand that this bothers me!"

"If it bothered you so much, you would have moved by now." There was a long pause as Sherlock and John stared at each other. Sherlock reached over, arching himself so he didn't touch John, and turned off the alarm clock.

"You still haven't moved," said Sherlock, looking down at John, arched over him like a cat. John just sighed. Sherlock returned to his side of the bed and pulled himself completely under the covers as John got out of bed. After awhile of coming and going, John knocked on the bedroom door.

"I'm leaving for work."

"But I just came back!"

"That doesn't change the fact I have a job, and you've been kind of annoying."

"What, so you're just going to leave me here for Ms. Hudson to find?"

"Yes."

"Alright then. Just get some milk and tea while your out."

"Okay. See you after work."

"At 2:46."

"How do you know that?"

"Your job hasn't changed much." John left the room and Sherlock heard the door click shut. Sherlock laid there, curled up much like John had been curled up into him last night. Sherlock looked at the empty white of the other side of the bed and found himself missing the warmth of John next of him, the breath of John on his chest. He wanted John back, and there was no way Sherlock was going to be able to fall back asleep without him. So giving up on sleep, Sherlock got up and picked up some clothes out of the jumble on the floor, then went to the front room and stared out the window, watching the world that had forgotten him go by. He glanced at a boy and knew he was excited to skip school for the first time. He glanced at a man on a bike and knew he was biking to work in an effort lose weight. He glanced at a woman and knew she was running late for her job as a store clerk because she had stayed up all night with her boyfriend, or perhaps girlfriend? No, she looked pretty straight. Then again, how could he be sure? How could he be sure John...Frustrated by the women's and John's not obvious sexual orientation, he flopped down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, before his mind was whirling so much with thoughts of John he knew he just needed a patch. No! He didn't have any patches! Sherlock ran down the stairs and out of 221B, and took a cab to go get himself his nicotine patches. He needed those if he was going to keep sane, having nothing to do all day. Coming back to his flat, he realized he wasn't thinking about John anymore, but then he started thinking about not thinking about John, which made him think about John. When he thought he just couldn't take the crazy anymore, he put on a patch and stared at the ceiling, suddenly realizing what he had just done by coming back to the world. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, how to tell Lestrade he was alive and was in desperate need of a case. Sherlock didn't think of a good way to do that before John came into the flat.

John walked into the flat and put the milk away, before turning around and looking over at Sherlock, in his meditative position on the couch. He nearly jumped out of his skin, him mind screaming last night was a dream and Sherlock was still dead. And yet, there was Sherlock, lying on the couch, as though the whole year he had been gone never happened. And then John couldn't help but think about the night before. He couldn't stop thinking about how good it had felt, to have Sherlock and him sleeping in the same bed. He couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock's icy nature, from his silvery blue eyes to his snowy white chewed up skin. That had surprised John, the tears in the perfect, soft white paper of Sherlock's skin. Even the mistakes on Sherlock were perfect. Sherlock just couldn't be wrong. John thought about the way he looked at women and other men, and nothing compared to how he saw Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"This morning."

"Oh."

"Sherlock, I think…"

The silence between the two men could have shattered glass.

"You said you were straight this morning. You always say we aren't a couple. Why are we still talking about this?"

"I'm not exactly sure that's true, Sherlock. I think…"

The tension in the room would of given anything a heart attack.

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced over at John. His face spoke of absolute terror, but there was something else there too. Hope? Relief? Longing? Acceptance? Lust? Love?

"I keep pretending it's not there, but it is. I love you, Sherlock."

"I think I might too, John."

Sherlock and John looked at each other for quite some time. Eventually, Sherlock began to return to meditating, but John put a stop to that. As soon as Sherlock had closed his eyes, eager John leaned over Sherlock and kissed him, right on the lips. Sherlock's eyes flew open with surprise as John moved away.

"Do that again John," ordered Sherlock, standing up, embracing John, and bent his head down as John bent his head up, and the two of them fit themselves together like a puzzle.

"You're good. Have you ever kissed someone before, Sherlock?"

"No-" and John stretched his neck up as he put together the last piece of the puzzle.


	8. What a tongue can do

That night, John and Sherlock shared the bed again; tangling themselves together till they couldn't move in fear of breaking their new lovers bones. John kissed Sherlock's black curls till they were damp with his spit. He loved this. He'd never felt this, this passion, this heat, this fever. He was dying to lock lips with Sherlock again, but they were positioned in a way so that John couldn't to that. John slipped his legs out of Sherlock's and snuggled down lower into the sheets, meeting eye to eye with the ice of Sherlock. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's lips again, hard and forceful, and this time Sherlock seemed to know what to do. John couldn't help but think that a girl's kiss didn't taste nearly as good and lacked the amount of passion and heat Sherlock's provided. Nobody's kiss could match that of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock broke away from John, breathing hard, chest throbbing from the pounding of his heart. Sherlock went for John this time, more drunken and unplanned then John had, leaving his lips slightly opened as he ran is tongue along John's lips. And then his teeth. And then John's tongue and hard palette. Somehow, John managed to move even closer to Sherlock, grinding his hipbone into Sherlock's. Sherlock couldn't think of anything that had ever been more distracting, anything less boring, then John's bones against his own. Sherlock found one of his hands laced with John's and his other on the small man's muscular chest, mimicking how John had placed his hand on Sherlock, only Sherlock pushed harder, and found himself on top of John.

"No," mumbled John, pushing Sherlock back down into the bed, cold air striking John's back. Speaking had caused the kiss to stop, and the two men took in each other for yet another moment, panting like rabid wolves after a chase, drinking in each other's own rejected carbon dioxide. Sherlock's face broke into a smile as he howled at John, a wild laugh, and his bit down between John's neck and shoulder, rough but light, something only Sherlock could do.

"Sherlock…" why did that feel so fucking good, to have Sherlock's teeth clamped around his median nerve, to have Sherlock's tongue in his mouth, to have Sherlock's legs tangled with his own? Why did Sherlock feel so good? Sherlock gasped, breaking John's train of thought as Sherlock held the side of his rib cage. John removed Sherlock's hand to find a shallow cut had reopen, reminding John how fragile Sherlock was. He had just come back from a life on the streets. How could John forget that? Blood ran down Sherlock's side, and before John realized what he was doing, he licked at the metallic red liquid. Sherlock moaned, putting his hand back down on John's chest, enjoying the muscular feeling and sting of John's tongue as John licked at his cut clean. As Sherlock's bleeding slowed, John looked up at Sherlock, Sherlock down at John, and they both started laughing as they realized what the two of them had been doing.

"Human emotion-" muttered Sherlock.

"Is beautiful. I love you, Sherlock."

"You too, John."

"So you do have normal human emotions!"

"Well, I didn't. Not until you, John."


End file.
